Pondering dashes

Several years ago, Rob and I were at a winery (imagine that) that told us about a local nonprofit they supported. The organization was called “Make the Dash Count.” Although I eventually forgot the purpose of the nonprofit, I have always remembered the name…and its meaning.

The Dash is that little punctuation mark on headstones between a person’s birth and death dates. The idea is that when it comes right down to it, our life and what we do with it is represented by that small horizontal line. It’s a tiny symbol with enormous symbolism.

I’ve been pondering my Dash a lot recently. My uncle Kent’s funeral was last week. He undeniably made his dash count.

The funeral home’s sanctuary was full. At least 40 cars were in the procession (actually called a cortege, I learned) to the cemetery. Numerous people stood in front of a microphone and shared memories, including his oncology nurse. His nurse. Kent’s nurse not only came to his funeral, she spoke about him. She shared how Kent had become a friend and had made her a better nurse by watching his example and being in the reflection of his positive attitude and gratitude.

That doesn’t happen to just anyone.

What I heard over and over, through stories and memories and photos, was how Kent just had fun with life. He was serious when he needed to be, but he tried not to spend too much time there. Life was too short to get dragged down by the serious stuff of life…even before it literally was.

I truly believe beauty can come from even the darkest of life’s moments. One of the most beautiful things to come out of Kent’s death (and a year prior, my grandma who was his mom-in-law) is getting genuinely connected with my aunt and cousins and their families for the first time. For all sorts of reasons, we have never really been family other than in name. But that is changing. Connections are starting to be made. Lives are starting to be shared. Six-year-olds are starting to call me “Aunt Toni” even though I’m not an aunt (PLEASE don’t tell her), and 11-year-olds are starting to trust Rob with their fears.

Even in his death, Kent is bringing people together and helping them focus on the important stuff.

Rob and I have been retired for over 15 years. We bailed on our careers really early, to the confusion and occasional jealousy of many around us. And yet with a decade and a half of practice, we still suck at it.

We both have a tendency to take on responsibilities and assume obligations because, well, we have the time and capability. We keep saying “yes” to stuff and have effectively found ourselves with multiple unpaid jobs. They all absolutely bring joy; but they also bring a measure of frustration and exhaustion, too. As all jobs do.

Although I sense my dash is having a positive impact, I also sense a growing need to have the energy and flexibility to focus on other things. I’m doing important stuff, but I’m not sure it’s the important stuff I should be doing. And sometimes important stuff is simply making time to be quiet and breathe deeply and laugh loudly and blast music with the windows rolled down and put candy corn on hot chocolate because you can’t find any marshmallows.

A quote that resonated with Kent as he battled cancer and then appeared on his funeral program and his urn (the most amazing urn ever) was “You get what everyone else gets…you get a lifetime.”

A lifetime.  A dash.  We each get one, gratefully with new chances each day to make sure it counts.

Yep, that is a Harley Davidson gas tank, painted the
same color as Kent's bike.  The next day when Rob
and I were visiting Kent's grave site, we were
approached by one of the men who dug the grave.
He said it was the most amazing urn they had ever
seen and he was so happy to have had the chance to
talk to us to learn more about the man it belongs to.